Cutthroat Canyon. William W. Johnstone

south of El Paso.

      The inquest was held at the county courthouse and was well attended, since Churchill had had plenty of friends and enemies both. The cattleman’s lawyers showed up and indignantly demanded justice for their client, claimed that Bo and Scratch had foully murdered Churchill with no provocation. None of the men who had been with Little Ed testified to back up that claim, however. It seemed that none of those who had been involved in the battle could be found.

      On the other hand, August Strittmayer, Porter Davidson, and numerous other citizens of El Paso who had been inside the Birdcage when the shooting started took the stand and told the coroner’s jury exactly what had happened. Once the testimony was concluded, it didn’t take the jury long to return with a verdict stating that Bo Creel and Scratch Morton had been justified in their actions when they shot Churchill, and Strittmayer and his bartenders had been acting in self-defense when they cut loose with those Greeners. Everyone involved was free to go.

      “I’ll see you at the livery stable in ten minutes,” Davidson told them as they paused on the steps outside the courthouse. “I want to get back to the mine as soon as I can. Those bandits have never bothered the mine itself, only the ore shipments, but you never know what they might be brave enough to do.”

      Strittmayer lumbered down the steps as Davidson departed. The big German shook hands with Bo and Scratch and said, “You cannot wait for Johnny’s funeral?”

      Bo shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We gave Davidson our word that we’d ride down to that mine of his with him. You know anything about that hombre, August?”

      “Not really,” Strittmayer said with a shrug. “He has been bringing ore shipments here to El Paso for the past six months or so, about every two weeks. His mine must be a good one, ja?”

      “He ever cause any trouble?”

      “Oh, nein, nein. He is a very friendly fellow and knows a great deal about mining. I know something of that myself, and we have had several good discussions. I like him.”

      “So do I,” Scratch said. “I hope we can give him a hand with his problems.”

      Strittmayer’s head inclined in a solemn nod. “Ja, the robbers who steal his ore. I have heard about them. You two should be careful. There is much danger below the border.”

      “There’s a heap of danger everywhere we go,” Scratch said with a laugh. “It seems like that anyway.”

      Bo pressed a coin into Strittmayer’s hand. “Put some flowers on Johnny’s grave for us. He was a good hombre. Deserved to go out better.”

      Strittmayer shrugged again. “He died in a saloon. I think he would have preferred that to a bed in some rented room in a boardinghouse.”

      “You’re probably right about that,” Bo agreed. “Just see to the flowers and we’ll be obliged, August.”

      “Ja. It will be done.”

      They had spent several minutes of the time Davidson had given them in talking to the saloon keeper, so Bo wasn’t surprised when they got to the livery stable and found Davidson already there, along with half a dozen other men.

      Scratch nudged Bo with an elbow and said under his breath, “Look yonder. It’s Jim Skinner.”

      “I see him,” Bo said.

      Jim Skinner stood slightly apart from the other men with Davidson. He was a couple of inches taller than Bo and Scratch, without an extra ounce of flesh anywhere on his body. You could sharpen a knife on his cheekbones. Lank dark hair fell to his shoulders. He wore two gunbelts that crossed each other and held a pair of holstered .45s. A Winchester was tucked under his left arm.

      Bo happened to know that Skinner also carried a knife in a sheath that hung down his back from a rawhide thong around his neck. Bo knew that because he had seen Skinner use that knife to cut a man’s face half off in a saloon up in Wyoming one time during an argument. Skinner had taken the poor son of a bitch by surprise with the blade.

      “Hell, I didn’t know he’d be one of the hombres Davidson hired,” Scratch said as they approached. “I ain’t so sure now about workin’ for the fella.”

      “We gave our word that we’d ride down there to the mine at least,” Bo reminded him. “You know any of those other hombres?”

      “Can’t say as I do. They all look like they still got the bark on, though.”

      That was true. Even though none of the other men were quite as sinister-looking as Jim Skinner, all of them had the hard-eyed faces of gents who were used to trouble. Of course, most people might say the same of him and Scratch, Bo reminded himself.

      “There you are,” Davidson said as they came up. “Are you ready to ride?”

      “Soon as we throw our saddles on our horses,” Bo said.

      “While you’re doing that, I’ll introduce you to the other men. Unless you already know some of them?”

      “I know Creel and Morton,” Skinner said in a gravelly voice. He turned his head and spat. “Didn’t know they was the other two gents you said you hired.”

      Davidson frowned as he looked back and forth between Bo and Scratch and Skinner. “Is there bad blood between you men?”

      “Our trails have crossed a time or two,” Skinner said.

      “That doesn’t answer the question.”

      “There’s no bad blood,” Bo said. “But Skinner’s got quite a reputation as a gunman.”

      “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?” Davidson asked. “I need men who can handle themselves when there’s trouble.”

      “And no man I ever killed died with a hole in his back neither,” Skinner added.

      Scratch bristled. “You ain’t callin’ us backshooters, are you, Skinner?”

      “Nope. I’m just sayin’ that happen I decide to take your measure, old man, you can count on me comin’ at you from the front.”

      Davidson held up his hands. “All right, that’s enough. I’m paying you men to fight bandits, not each other.”

      “We’ll steer clear of Skinner,” Bo said, “and he can steer clear of us.”

      Skinner jerked his head in a nod. “Sounds good to me.”

      “That’s settled then,” Davidson said. “Get saddled up. We’ve already wasted enough of the day.”

      While Bo and Scratch got their mounts ready to ride, Davidson introduced the other five men, as he’d said that he would. The big, tow-headed Swede was named Hansen. Jackman and Tragg could have been brothers with their swarthy faces and thick black mustaches, but they weren’t related. “That we know of,” Jackman added. The slender, baby-faced kid whose cold eyes belied his innocent appearance was called Douglas, with no indication of whether that was his first or last name. The final man was Lancaster, and when he said hello to Bo and Scratch, Bo heard a trace of a British accent in his voice. Remittance man, more than likely, who had been in the States for a good long time.

      Bo cinched the saddle snug on his rangy lineback dun and said to Davidson, “With a group this big trailing your gold wagons, it’ll be hard to keep those bandidos from spotting us.”

      “I thought maybe you could split up so that you wouldn’t be as noticeable, then converge on the wagons if there’s trouble.”

      Bo thought it over for a second and then nodded. “That might work,” he allowed.

      “But only once, like Bo told you last night,” Scratch added as he led his big, handsome bay out of the barn.

      “I’m hoping that once will be enough,” Davidson said.

      The nine men swung up in their saddles. They had a couple of packhorses loaded with